Skinny

*I feel like I should start with a disclaimer-- this is a bit more personal (and less funny) than I usually am on my blog. If you're not in the mood for that, feel free to just skip this post. Or if you think I'm treating serious matters too lightly, I apologize for that, too. I'm afraid this is about as serious as I get in my writing!



I took just enough ballet to absolutely love it, know that I'm not particularly good at it, and completely skew my perception of what my body should look like. I started way too late-- high school and college. No ballerina ever began dancing in high school. But when I was young enough to perhaps (but honestly, probably not) have been molded into a real dancer, I was more interested in learning how to ski. It wasn't until I failed to get a part in the high school musical my junior year that I decided I needed a new hobby and took a beginning ballet class for adults.

When I headed off to BYU, I continued with the ballet and gradually added every ballroom dance class that they offered. Ironically, I made it to the 300-level classes in all but ballet. In the last ballet class I took, I was so happy when my instructor told me and my good friend that we were ready for the 300-level class. But then I went on study abroad instead and couldn't bear the idea of repeating the same 200-level class again in order to get back in shape enough for the next level. So that was the end of my ballet career.

This wasn't a huge loss-- flexibility does not run in my family, and while I was pretty good at most of the dance classes I took (I always came away with an A or an A-), I definitely wasn't anything special. I was never the girl who didn't have to worry about finding a dance partner because she was just so amazing, if you know what I mean.

But yes, all this dancing did severely distort my ideas of what I should weigh. Not my perspective of other people's bodies; just my own. This is one of those things that I mostly just try not to think about too much. I have a pretty good idea of what I should weigh, and as long as I'm in the ballpark, I don't worry too much. (Obviously, when I'm pregnant it's a whole different story. But that's not my point right now.)

But during my first year of graduate school, I got pretty stressed out. I was in a train wreck of a relationship, wherein anything that went wrong was always mysteriously my fault (and worst of all, I always believed it). I was taking classes in a subject I wasn't entirely familiar with (that happens when you switch majors). And I was teaching for the first time. Actually, it was worse than that: not only was I teaching for the first time, I was also simultaneously working and going to school for the first time.

It was a lot to handle. And apparently I dealt with it by not eating.

This was certainly never a conscious decision. I was just too busy, or I was too stressed, or I was too unhappy to bother with food very much. I never noticed or thought about it until other people began noticing. The little sister of the evil boyfriend asked me once if I was starving myself or possibly making myself throw up (she had been bulimic, so she was understandably concerned). Their mother also asked me if I was throwing up. (Fortunately, no. I may have had some issues, but they weren't that deep!) Neither of these observations worried me; I just felt touched that they were so concerned for me.

It wasn't until my oldest sister Leah saw me and began lecturing me on eating properly that I began to think that maybe all these people were right and I was wrong. Not that Leah's lecture did much good-- I don't think I changed anything at that point. But life changes. The bad relationship finally ended and I suddenly found myself dating Craig and happier than I'd ever been before. As I continued taking classes, I got comfortable with my new subject and more confident in my scholarship. I got used to the juggling act of teaching and being a student, and learned to enjoy the combination. And the eating problem resolved itself with no more thought than I had given it in the first place.

But just recently, a friend posted a picture on facebook of me during this skinny time, and I have to admit, I was horrified by how anorexic I looked.
Maybe it's just the angle or the shadow effect or something, but I look like I'm about to disappear. And I think I may have been trying to, at that point in my life.

I'm thankful that I don't feel like I want to disappear any more. I'm thankful that eating is a happy thing for me, that life is full of joy. Much as I occasionally am shocked by just how much weight I can put on while pregnant, I'm also thankful that I'm able to have babies and be healthy and even happy during my pregnancies.

Yes, I'll have a lot of work to do to get this weight off after Lucky makes his/her appearance. But until then, I am darn well going to let my soul delight in fatness.

I might go make brownies.